


Fur

by beaubete



Series: New Tricks/Fur [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Non-Penetrative Sex Toys, Shaving Kink, mild D/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 06:39:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond helps Q with his grooming habits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fur

He tucks his toes in tight, feels them curling under his arse as he kneels on the bed.  His skin is still hot, still stinging from the shower spray that’s left him pink and warm to the touch all over.  He gestures vaguely at the mess of curls between his thighs and Bond laughs.

“I dealt with the itching for you,” Q complains, brow folding low in irritation.  “I dealt with the bloody _ingrown hairs_.”

“One,” Bond corrects.  “And I even held the compress on for you, you lazy knob.”

“I want it gone.”

“All of it?” Bond asks, and.  Well, it’s an idea, something that’s crossed his mind before but never stuck.  Curling his body down to peer at the damp hair that’s sticking _everywhere_ like malignant seaweed, Q shivers.

“What do you—?” he asks, thoughtful.  “I mean, perhaps….”  He trails off.  Bond makes a soft, contemplating noise, and Q wonders what it would be like to be completely bare.  He’s always left just enough, some semblance of masculinity surrounding his bits to keep them warm at night, but he’d be lying if he said it was cold and not interest raising gooseflesh on his thighs.

“Do you need my permission?” Bond asks, and oh, that’s something they’ve skirted around, too; played about, toyed with.  It sets his heart racing and his cock starts to tic with blood under the scrutiny.

“Yes, please,” Q breathes.

“Then lie back and spread your legs,” Bond says evenly.  His hands don’t even shake as he presses against Q’s abdomen, but his eyes glitter.  “I’ll take care of you.”

It’s easy to be obedient, to let his spine sink into the mattress and spread wide, skin rapidly cooling and heating again when Bond slaps his arse to lift and place a towel beneath.  “Thank you,” Q remembers belatedly as he watches Bond rub at the crease of his thigh with a thumb.

“Anything for my good boy,” Bond says, but he’s distracted.  That’s okay; Q is, too.

Bond leaves him spread and wanting, cock growing firm as he displays it to the room, and heads into the toilet, returning with a few necessaries and a steaming mug, a small towel thrown over his shoulder.  “No straight razors near my wedding tackle, Mr. Bond,” Q tries, but it’s breathy and tight with anticipation.  Bond gives him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement, holding up a disposable he must have snuck from Q’s side of the sink.  Q laughs, tutting.  “You’ll never get through it with that.  Fetch the trim kit from the cupboard and bring it back.”  Bond raises a brow but does as he’s told; when he returns Q checks the battery to be sure it’s charged and hands it back.  “Slow, even strokes until it’s mostly gone, then cream and the safety razor.  If you give me razor burn on my bollocks you will be the one rubbing ointment on them.”

“Getting to pet your bollocks every day under the excuse of medical treatment isn’t a threat,” Bond teases, and Q’s about to bite back when it crosses Bond’s mind to show him just how much of a hardship it isn’t, curling a hot, callused hand around the delicate skin and tugging gently at the curled hairs there.  Q groans.  “I may very well miss this stuff,” Bond adds.  He sounds unfairly unruffled as Q bucks into his hand, trying to find more sensation.

“Get on with it,” Q tells him, and Bond laughs.

“As you command, Quartermaster.”

The buzzing of the trimmer is loud in the room.  His stomach clenches; when it’s just Q and the trimmer and an awkwardly placed mirror, he knows what to expect, when and where—the vibrations shock him out of his contemplations, startling a peaky sound that makes Bond draw back, brow knit.  “I’m fine,” Q tells him, then bites his lip.  “If you must know, it’s,” he stops, searching for the right word, feeling the flush that slips like hot water across his face and chest, “ _pleasant_.  I just wasn’t—prepared?”

Bond blinks at him for a moment, and Q’s sure the man is going to make him say it, but Bond’s eyes just widen in recognition.  He turns back to the task with a solemn expression and a twist of the lip that doesn’t bode well for Q at all.  “Oh?” Bond asks.  His casual tone doesn’t fool anyone; he’s not sure it’s meant to.

The first sweep pulls a dark tangle from his skin and a whispery sigh from Q’s mouth.  Bond’s nudged his cock with the end of the trimmer as he pulled safely away, and the electric feel of it is still burbling in his blood.  “Bond,” he says, trying for threatening and landing afield in “mildly peevish”.  He can’t keep the thrill from his voice.  “Don’t.”

Bond shushes him then, carefully lifting away another thick tuft.  It leaves Q a little cooler, perhaps, but there’s still a fine fuzz behind; Bond smooths the curled edge of his thumb over the velvet nap and the prickles make Q’s abdomen jerk as his breath leaves him in one go and his chest clenches tight.  “Stay still,” Bond tells him, and then he’s carefully pulling at loose skin until it’s taut and the trimmer’s vibrations can be felt all the way up behind Q’s navel, tight and fizzing like tickling bees.  His breath is shallow, catching.  “Are you swooning?” Bond asks.

“Of course not,” Q manages, but only just.  Bond ignores the bravado and tucks him onto his side, lifting the thigh on top until Q is on display, pretty and flushed hard and very nearly dripping against his own leg.  He blushes, suddenly aware of the forest Bond must be seeing back there, but Bond says not a word, rummaging through the kit for a longer guard.  “What are you—?”

“Did you prefer completely bare?  I thought the stubble might be troublesome, but we can go shorter if you prefer,” Bond says, pausing. 

“Are you shaping the hair on my arsehole?” Q asks, and suddenly the situation is ridiculous.  Bond’s lip quirks.

“I like it, myself, as long as you’re comfortable.  I just thought you’d rather tidy it while we’re in the neighborhood,” Bond says, and like that it sounds reasonable.  Q’s blush chases away the panicked giggles and he spreads his legs wider, sinking his face meekly into the pillow again.

“Do as you like.  You’ll be the only one to see.”

“It’s your body, Q,” Bond scolds gently, laying the trimmer to the side to pet at him.  “You shouldn’t be in such a rush to please me.  I’m happiest when you’re comfortable.”

Q swallows against the lump that forms in his throat and nods.  “Maybe,” he says, and he lets his fingers curl into the pillow to hide his nervousness, “—maybe the second shortest?  The stubble won’t be a problem, but.  I like the texture.  That’s the one I use for trimming up the front.”

Bond hums in agreement as he snaps the guard into place.  “I thought so,” he says cheerfully, reaching down to spread Q with a hand.  His thumb rubs over the hole briefly, soothing, and the trimmer follows, brief as a kiss and twice as dizzying.  Bond leans in close; Q can feel the heat from his cheeks as he blows the excess hair away, then dabs with the towel.  He presses in the center a sweet kiss that nearly sends Q skittering up the duvet with nerves and leans back, patting Q’s arse until he turns onto his back again.  “Cream next,” Bond says, patting at Q until he’s spread on the towel again.

“You left the canister,” Q reminds him.

“No.” 

“No?”

“No,” Bond says firmly, and Q tips his head to look at him.  “I’d bet you’ve never had a proper wet shave, have you?”  Bond’s tone is conversational as he fusses with the items he’s brought from the bathroom cupboard.  “It’s a pity; these days boys don’t.  They just jump straight into the cheap plastic razors and the even cheaper plastic foams, and they never learn the luxury of a good, proper shave.”

“I said no straight razors.”

“No straight razors,” Bond agrees.  “But that doesn’t mean I can’t pamper you.”  The brush is stiff when Bond brushes it over his heated skin.  It’s just this side of sharp-smooth-sleek-textured, grabbing at his skin in a silky glide.  “Badger,” Bond says, at Q’s inquiring look.  He’s ostensibly brushing away the loose hair from earlier, but Q lets him linger, skin tightening under its bristles as Bond trips it up to his navel and down again, both of them watching as the gooseflesh rises and the fine hairs low on his belly begin to stand.

“Practically an antique,” Q says breathlessly.

“A classic,” Bond corrects.  The edge of the brush flickers along the side of Q’s cock where it throbs to show its interest and Q catches his hand, tugging it still.

“Tease.”

“Yes.”  Bond’s eyes are dark.  “You are.”

Q’s nose twitches as the heady smell of bergamot and pine fills the room; it’s familiar, the smell on the inside of Bond’s collars that’s so lovely and rich, lingering on the pillows while Bond is off saving the world from itself.  He reaches blind for the bowl and Bond stops, a bemused smile on his face as he carefully tips it so Q can inhale.  “Gorgeous.”  The word escapes on a breath and Q sinks into the bed again, muscles going languid and loose.

“Yes.  You are.”  Bond’s eyes are soft.

“Flirt,” Q accuses fondly. 

“Oh, definitely,” Bond agrees.

“It smells like you,” Q says, just to watch the way Bond’s eyes crinkle at the ends.

“And now it will smell like you.”  The foam is thick and soft, warm from the water and impossibly plush.  It feels like a pillow wrapping itself around him, and Q peers down the length of his body as Bond carefully dabs it into place.  “Spread,” Bond says, coaxing his knees apart to get at his bollocks with the foam and brush; before Q quite knows it, he’s set the bowl and brush down and is snapping the plastic shield from the disposable razor.  “You must be very, very still for this.  Can you do that for me, darling?  Don’t move a muscle.”  Q’s cock jumps a little and he flushes deeper, nodding.  “Good boy.”

He listens to the rasp of the razor along his skin and wonders that he can hear it over his juddering heart.  His breath is ragged, but Bond’s is smooth, deep, and careful.  Bond’s hands are sure, carefully coaxing the foam and hair away in swathes that leave him hot and cold at the same time.  After the trim, it’s quick work to take the rest of the nest of curls from around his cock; Bond moves quickly to his bollocks, tugs the skin tight to prevent cuts, and shaves him bare as he hasn’t been since he was fourteen.

It’s almost overwhelming, this sleepy, languid heat and the methodical touch of Bond’s hands on him not quite clinical but less than sexual.  Sensual, Q’s mind supplies, drinking in the feel of fingertips on his nude skin as though parched.  It’s as though his senses have been turned on, turned up, and if he focuses he can feel everything from the tiniest brush of Bond’s sleeve to the folds in the bed sheets beneath him.  His nose is filled with the spicy sweet scent of Bond’s shave soap, his eyes with the sight of his own pale skin being revealed in strips.  When he glances up with lust-drunk eyes, Bond’s smiling down on him, finished and brandishing a slightly damp towel that he sweeps tenderly across almost-raw skin to slick away any leftover foam.  Bond’s fingers brush against the almost-softening line of his cock and Q grins.

“Get up here,” he says, lifting his arms for Bond to fit between.

“Absolutely hairless,” Bond murmurs against his cheek and into his ear.

“Except for my arse,” Q adds.

“Except for your arse,” Bond agrees.  His fingers dip to pet at the sleek, bare skin with wonder.  “So soft, like a baby.”

Q can feel his grin go sharp as he thrusts into Bond’s hand.  “I think you’ll find I’m all grown up.”

“Oh, you are, at that,” Bond says, and it’s a little bit disconcerting how genial he’s being.

“You really like this, don’t you?” Q realizes.  At Bond’s bashful glance down, he lets his hips fall open, showing off. 

“I like that you let me do it for you,” Bond says, and Q lets him mouth at his neck and ear before stealing a kiss. 

“Shaving?” he asks between Bond’s lips.

“Taking care of you.” 

And Q should have known that this was an extension of Bond’s protective streak, an extension of that urge Bond has to protect and care for and coddle the things he— _anything that’s smaller than him_ , Q’s mind substitutes, because even with Bond affectionately nuzzling into his hair and petting enthusiastically at the root of his cock, he can’t say they’re…there.  Not quite.  Bond’s thumb follows the vein along the underside of his cock to the head and thoughts of love slip through Q’s mind like running water.  “More,” he sighs, arching into Bond’s body.  “Please, more.”

“Since you asked so nicely,” Bond purrs, and Q feels the touch of his tongue at the same moment Bond’s hand wraps around him, the calluses on the palm adding just enough friction to leave him aching. 

“God, yes.”  And it’s not begging; Q feels proud of that, that he’s not begging except in the way his body is making greedy little pleas as he pumps into Bond’s still grip.

“I never did get to use that vibrator on you,” Bond says, and _to hell_ with propriety—Q fumbles blind for the nightstand drawer, nearly tipping it out before Bond soothes him with a chuckle and digs through the drawer for all of the things Q likes to have nearby before bed.  There are slips of paper, bits of wire, half-finished, half-thought projects languishing in the dark after being fiddled past recognition by a half-sleeping Q.  Beneath it all….  Q flushes when Bond returns triumphant, a sticky bottle of lube and.  Well.  “Hidden depths, Quartermaster,” Bond says, and Q could knock the smug look from his face if he weren’t hard enough to hammer nails.

“It was a cheap source for a high-powered rotor,” he denies, but it falls flat even to his own ears.

“And you just couldn’t bring yourself to take it apart?”

“And where would you be right now if I had?” Q asks.  Bond has the grace to concede, lifted brow falling and a wicked smile the only hint at his amusement.  It’s not—anyway; Q could fool himself into thinking that no one would know it by sight, but the truth is that the familiar shape had drawn his eye every time he opened his parts box.  He’d been tempted, sorely tempted, and had moved it to the bedside drawer but hadn’t worked up the nerve to use it until one night, desperate and alone after a full day of Bond’s smirks and teases, he’d put it down his pants and come off brilliantly to the memory of Bond’s hand on his own.  He was fond of it now.

It’s pink plastic, a short, rounded cylinder with a cord coming from it and a wheel dial on the attached remote; Bond rolls the dial experimentally and the egg comes to life, thrumming eagerly where it lies on Q’s belly.  It nudges the end of Q’s cock while Bond is still messing around with the dial and the sound Q makes is nearly wounded.  Bond’s eyes light up.  “Hold the headboard,” Bond instructs, and even though every instinct inside of him is telling him that this is a bad idea, that Q will make a fool of himself, he obeys, wrapping his hands around the vertical slats.  His abdomen leaps with excitement, and Bond rewards him with a little pat on the taut muscle there. 

He starts slow, touching the vibrator to the line of Q’s sternum and trailing it down until it reaches the pale, sensitive flesh that was once the narrow trail of hair leading to his cock.  Turning, he skates the vibrator along the rim of Q’s navel.  “Shall I turn it on?” Bond asks.  Q bites his lip.

“Please.”

Q wonders if it’s some sort of Pavlovian response: he hears the vibrations start low and sweet, and his cock throbs hard enough to lift from his belly.  Bond doesn’t even laugh, just trails the candy-pink plastic along his skin in swirls that draw closer and closer until Q can’t catch his breath, each gasp high and stinging with anticipation and Q feels he may crawl straight out of his skin soon.  The first touch is relief and too much; he twitches, clambering away from it with heels dug into the bed, but his hands don’t leave the headboard.  Bond makes a soft shushing sound and pins him with a hand on his hip while the other mercilessly drawing circles on his inner thigh, inching in toward his bollocks in a way that makes Q’s breath come high and raspy.

“God,” Bond groans, elbowing Q’s knee out of the way brusquely to hover over him.  Q is a butterfly pinned desperate and immoveable; Bond holds him down to torture him sweet.  The vibrator hums between them, and Q writhes.  “God.  You’re so responsive.”

“Sensitive,” Q agrees when he can breathe, syllables falling between shaking pants and tight-squeezed eyes.  “It’s too much!”

“Shh,” Bond says.  It’s too much.  Q squirms in his grip as Bond pushes the vibrator along the line of his cock; the headboard creaks, makes a hollow cracking noise when Q throws his head back and _arches_ , keening and wailing and still holding, still clinging, like a—“Good boy,” Bond praises, even as he presses the still-shaking plastic against his frenulum and come squeaks out of his overstimulated cock in weak and dizzy pulses.  When he’s spent to the point it hurts, an aching like a bruise drawing up in his guts, Bond finally pulls it away, praise glowing on his face.  Q sobs for breath.  “You didn’t let go,” Bond says, and for the first time Q registers the cramping in his fingers; his knuckles are white and stiff as Bond gingerly eases them away from the boards.

“I think I broke something,” Q manages, laughing in fits and spurts like coughs.

“The bed will be fine.”

“I meant myself.  Jesus, Bond, you don’t do things by halves, do you?”

“Not at all.  Anything worth doing is worth doing right, or doing over and over again until you get it right.”  Bond’s voice is serious, and Q imagines he might not just be talking about orgasms here.

“You want me to—?” Q offers with a vague, dirty hand gesture.

Bond blinks, then draws back, flustered.  There’s a stiffness in his posture that says discomfort.  “I already—when you were—God, you were gorgeous.”  Q goes silent, irrationally pleased that James Bond came in his pants over him. 

“I’m sad I missed it.”

“Oh, the show I had was much better than that,” Bond tells him, but for a moment he looks unsure, fingers hovering over the placket of his trousers.

“Sod it, Bond.  Get out of your mess and get under the blankets with me.  I’m suddenly not able to retain body heat the way I could before,” Q commands, shuffling on the bed to make room and hide his nervous blush.

“Yes, sir.”  There’s rustling, then Bond’s breath on the back of his ear; Q can’t help but melt into him.  “I can’t believe such a prim thing as you had one of those in his drawer,” Bond says, laughter puffing quiet along Q’s shoulder.

“You got off to shaving me to look like a ten year old.  Are we really making disparaging comments about one another’s personal habits?”

Bond’s hand sneaks around to pet his recently shorn skin and he hums thoughtfully.  “I suppose not.”

“Next time you’ll have to use a condom or something on me to dull the sensation.  That was embarrassingly fast,” Q says.  He waits for the penny to drop.

Bond’s a smart man.  “Next time—?”

“You shaved my cock, man.  You think I’m not interested in fucking you again?”

And maybe it isn’t—that, not yet.  Maybe he’ll never be able to say that word in his head, much less aloud.  But Bond hears him all the same, scooping his boneless body in closer until he’s surrounded by Bond’s body heat and the gentle scratch of Bond’s pubic hair against his mostly-hairless arse.  “Next time,” Bond says, sure.  Q squeezes his hand.


End file.
